Times were tough when Pete Cardella became a cop. He had been a plumber’s assistant and spent some time working on ships as a first-class welder at the Navy Yard, but he was married now with a child and another on the way. He needed a job that promised a steady paycheck. Years later he would boast of never having missed a day’s pay, thanks to the police force. Being a cop became not only his occupation, but his calling.
In the beginning, he had to overcome his wife’s objections to the rotating shift work. But what she hated the most was the danger — not knowing when he left the house if he would ever return. She never got past that fear. In time, she learned to live with it, but she hated it no less.
The most vivid memory I have of the danger he faced was the time he came home with his police jacket shredded by a knife-wielding woman. He had responded to her call for help, but when he tried to arrest the man, the woman turned on him. He hated answering calls on domestic disputes because he said invariably you wound up being attacked by the victim as well as the attacker. The shredded jacket became yet another reason for his wife to hate the Police Department.
I’m not sure exactly when he became known as Pistol Pete. It was probably around the same time a young Frank Rizzo became known as the Cisco Kid. Is it just a little boy’s imagination that remembers his father’s police weapon as having pearl handles with the silver barrel shining like something out of "The Lone Ranger?"
The commendations for various acts of bravery started piling up. Pistol Pete was fearless. Soon he was on Motor Bandit patrol, a dashing figure riding off on a motorcycle like some avenging angel. It was like having a parent who was a superhero. He was someone whose courage the boy knew he could never match.
He hated cops who allowed themselves to get out of shape and who bothered restaurant owners for free food. He didn’t like cops who thought the parking laws were only for civilians. He thought these kinds of cops disgraced the uniform.
His courage was not without its downside. He had a short fuse. During the riots in North Philadelphia, the department made sure Pistol Pete was patrolling elsewhere. One night in a movie theater, some guy kept banging his feet on the back of his wife’s seat. One word led to another and the guy wound up in the station facing charges of disorderly conduct. Going for pizza one night on Passyunk Avenue, he spotted a robbery in progress at a nearby store and we found ourselves watching him chase the thieves while firing his pistol in the air. Pistol Pete was always on duty.
Eventually he was promoted to the Narcotics Squad. They had wanted to put him in Vice, but he had family involved in illegal gambling and begged out of it. Pistol Pete was right at home in the middle of the drug war. He was a colorful figure. Popeye Doyle in "The French Connection" could have been modeled after him. He wore his Stetson with the brim up and dressed in the best suits Ripley’s Men Shop had to offer. He was a key member of Clarence Ferguson’s Squad. His only soft spot was for addicted musicians. Many caught a break from the righteous wrath of Pistol Pete because he could blow a mean horn or belt out a song.
Most of his conversations off duty were about police work. He could not get enough of it. Federal narcotics agents used to come to his house to see his personal index file on drug dealers. If ever a man was obsessed with going after injustice, it was Pistol Pete.
In the end, the Police Department that made him also broke him. There were allegations of payoffs and the Narcotics Squad was broken up. Pete wasn’t involved, but he too paid the price. He was back pounding the beat, a cop with 35 commendations, the best Narc the city has ever known. His wife became ill, her pleas to leave the department finally hit home. He worked a couple of years for District Attorney Arlen Specter, then slipped into the obscurity of retirement.
Pistol Pete was left with his memories. He was a cop to the end.
One day, long after he was gone, my wife ran into Frank Rizzo, who it turned out was running his last race.
"I knew someone you knew," she said. Who, Rizzo wanted to know.
"Pete Cardella," she said.
"Pistol Pete," Rizzo replied. He was smiling.
